


Dream a Little Dream of Me

by Anonymous_ID



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Come Inflation, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Nipple Licking, Parent/Child Incest, Pregnancy Kink, Sexual Inexperience, Underage Sex, Voyeur Sam, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 13:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: Response to an spn kink meme prompt;  'Late at night, after their Daddy is done doing....whatever it is that makes the bed squeak and Dean gasp and sob and whimper, Sam likes to crawl in with his brother and lay his head on Dean's full, swollen tummy...." Full prompt in notes at the beginning of this work.   Please read the notes and tags, since this work includes underage/non-specified age participants.  I have tagged it as rape/noncon due to the age of the participants, rather than to any explicit non-consensual actions, but you are warned!





	Dream a Little Dream of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Full prompt: Late at night, after their Daddy is done doing....whatever it is that makes the bed squeak and Dean gasp and sob and whimper, Sam likes to crawl in with his brother and lay his head on Dean's full, swollen tummy. His Daddy made that happen somehow, he knows; he just doesn't know quite how. He likes to fall asleep listening to the rumbles and gurgles of Dean's belly, imagining that somehow, their Daddy put a baby inside Dean that's kicking and squirming. He likes to kiss the 'baby', liking how it makes Dean shiver and bite his lip. 
> 
> All my love if it turns out he's right, and their brother Adam is born a few months later.  
> [link: http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/126067.html?thread=44023155#t44023155]

Daddy says Sam should sleep in the cot in the kitchen so he can hear the school bus.  It kind of makes sense: Sam is good at school; he’s skipped two grades already.  But their trailer is away back in the woods and the heat doesn’t work so good, so Sam has a tendency to crawl back under the blankets with a book after breakfast and not actually get his shoes on until he hears the bus turn into the long dirt lane in front of the house. 

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t like school and doesn’t always go.  Some mornings, he stays curled up in blankets on the saggy old mattress that he and Daddy share, watching Sam scramble with his shoelaces, his ragged bookbag.

“C’mere,” Dean’ll say drowsily at the last minute. Sam will huff, mutter about missing the bus, but he’ll stomp over to the bed and kiss the sleep-warm cheek Dean offers him.  When Dean ruffles his hair and says, “have a good day at school, jerk,” with that fond, protective smirk, Sam is sometimes tempted to climb into bed next to his brother, all warm and drowsy, so maybe it’s a good thing that he has those extra minutes.

However, Sam didn’t skip two grades just because he’s tall for his age.  He’s no dummy—they live in a glorified mobile home!  The bed that Dean shares with Daddy is no more than eight feet and one flimsy partition from Sam’s kitchen cot.  Sam would hear the bus just as well from over there.  No, Sam thinks the sleeping arrangements have to do with the _other_ things he hears: stifled moans and whimpers late at night.   Sam is a Winchester, a born hunter; he decides to figure out just what is happening in the dark.

He is helped by three things.  The first is that he stops drinking the milk that Daddy warms up for him at night. Daddy is always mixing up potions and tinctures on the old two-burner camping stove, and when the winter moon starts to wane, he’ll often heat up a big mug of warm milk just for Sam.  “Drink it all down, now, and don’t let he bedbugs bite,”  he says affectionately, right before he closes the accordion-pleated panel that  separates the kitchen from the rest of the trailer. It always makes Sam feel special: Daddy uses Sam’s favorite mug, and the milk tastes better than the usual cheap, powdered stuff.  But Sam notices that there’s never any for Dean and, what’s more, Dean never complains about it.  Not once, not even teasing.  And everyone knows warm milk helps you sleep. So one night, Sam waits until he hears Daddy climb into the big bed—the mattress gives one long _hunnnnfff_ while Daddy settles in between Dean and the wall—and then Sam slips out of his cot and slowly, slowly pours the milk down the kitchen sink.  It takes him ages to fall asleep that night;  he's sure that Daddy will hear, will _know._ The big bed is pretty quiet that night (just Daddy’s occasional snoring) but Sam twists and turns in the narrow cot, thinking about what his teacher always says about wasting food and starving Africans. 

Without his milk, Sam doesn’t sleep well at all (though it will be a long time before he realizes that it wasn’t just guilt and nerves that kept him from dropping off so quickly).  The next day, he falls asleep on the long bus ride home.  The driver has to shake him awake, not unkindly, when they reach the end of the rural road in front of the trailer. That’s the second thing:  catnapping on the ride home from school means that Sam is still wide awake at night, when he hears the mattress springs start to creak. 

The third thing is what Pastor Jim would call an act f God: a late winter storm that takes down the scrim of raggedy pines that have shadowed the trailer for as long as Sam can remember. This means that at night, the old sodium lights out on the county road spill though the window over the bed, illuminating that end of the trailer.  The same grimy set of café curtains still hangs over the window, and Daddy always sleeps on the inside, where it’s darkest.  How is he to know how brightly backlit he is, the outer edge of the bed lit almost plain as day, especially on full moon nights.

So it is that on the first night of the full moon, Sam pours his milk down the sink, tipping the mug slowly so as not to overwhelm the old, jerry-rigged plumbing.  Then he lays down, not on his cot, but on the floor where the badly fitted accordion-pleated plastic “door” fails to meet either the floor or the wall and he peeks out.  The middle part of the trailer is dark, but the far end, where Daddy and Dean are asleep in the big bed that takes up the short end of the room, is lit by a mixture of moon and the pale yellow of the highway lights.  Once, at the school before the school before this one, Sam’s whole kindergarten class had gone to see an amateur production of the Three Billy Goats Gruff, and Sam is reminded of how clearly he’d been able to see the action from his dark seat, while the actors had been blinded by the stage lights. He can see Daddy asleep on his side, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the light, can see Dean asleep at the edge of the bed, on his belly, one arm dangling off the edge, almost brushing the floor.  They sleep like that for what seems like a long time.  Sam himself is almost asleep on the chilly floor, before a faint, whispering sound wakes him a little.

The noise is Daddy, Sam realizes blearily.  Daddy’s hand, his long strong fingers, on the fabric of Dean’s old t-shirt. Daddy rubbing gentle circles on Dean’s back.  Sam blinks furiously, clearing the sleep from his eyes.  For a while, there’s nothing else to see.  Eventually, Daddy’s big hand moves up, stroking Dean’s short hair, cupping his skull, kneading the nape of his neck.  Dean burrows into his pillow with a soft, sleepy sigh, like a cat who enjoys his petting.  _Sam_ would like to be petted, he thinks, imagining how much better Daddy’s big, warm palm would feel than the splintery kitchen linoleum.  The small, regular movements, the _shuh-shuh_ of fabric against skin, has nearly lulled him to sleep before Daddy moves again. 

Dean makes a faint, confused sound when Daddy's hand goes away, and he lifts his head off the pillow. 

“Shhh,” Daddy soothes, and then he’s tugging at the cloth of his own shirt and letting Dean curl against him.  “Yeah,” Daddy’s voice is deep but low, “yeah, that’s right, baby boy.”

Silence, then, just the quietest _skritch_ of Daddy’s nails in Dean’s hair, cradling Dean’s head against his chest.

The next sounds confuse Sammy a little.  They’re… _liquid_ noises.  Wet.  Like when Daddy stayed out late on a hunt the one weekend and Dean had told him to go play at Jonathan’s house, to hang around ‘til dinner time and maybe Jonathan’s mom would ask him to stay.  She had, and then, after she’d set out plates of mashed potatoes and chicken nuggets, she’d sat in a corner chair with Jon’s baby sister and put a blanket over her… Nursing.  That’s the word for that greedy rhythmic, smacking sound.  Dean is nursing from Daddy. 

It must feel...really good, Sam would imagine.  He can’t see if Daddy has that calm, quiet look like Jon’s mother, but it only takes a few moments before Daddy eases onto his back with a contented sigh.  He keeps Dean pulled against him, resumes rubbing slow circles onto Dean’s back, lower, lower.  Dean is sprawled half on Daddy and half on the edge of the mattress; one foot is on the floor for balance.  When Daddy’s hand dips under the waistband of Dean’s sweatpants, Sam expects Dean to protest.  But instead, he sees Dean’s ankle flex, pushing _up,_ wanting _more_.  And then Daddy’s hand starts moving, working, bulging under the baggy grey cloth.  A gasp, Dean’s head tipping back, his face open-mouthed in the moonlight.  The bare foot lifting off the floor, toes curling, all of Dean’s weight on Daddy, and Daddy shushing again, words a deep growl—“Shh, you can…c’mon.  Gimme kiss.”  

Daddy pulls Dean down again (panting and more wet sounds, quieter this time: kissing sounds.  And not at all like the quick, dry kiss Sam gives Dean because the bus is waiting).  Daddy’s other hand is pulling at Dean’s sweatpants, urging them over his butt—his _ass_ , Dean calls it.  Dean is wriggling, awkwardly but obviously trying to help Daddy remove the clothing.  He twists and kicks and the sweatpants slither onto the floor. 

In the stark light, his ass looks sculpted, shadowy hollows scooped out of each cheek, Daddy’s hand still working between them.   They are beautiful together, father and son, Daddy and brother.  Daddy’s strong arm curving around Dean’s waist, Dean’s tight hips shifting in time with Daddy’s fingers doing something Sam can’t see.  Dean is making different noises now—“hmmhh. mmmph!”—like his mouth is full, like he’s biting down on something (Daddy’s shirt?) to keep from being louder.

Another grumble: Daddy again, “c’mon.” 

 “Nnn…”—That sounds like Dean, a half-hearted protest.  And then Dean turns his head, looks right at where Sam is pressed to the floor, barely breathing.  It’s all Sam can do not to scramble further backwards into the darkness of the kitchen.  There’s no way Dean can see him spying, he reminds himself. 

And Daddy must agree. “Don’t worry, he’s out like a light,” Daddy’s whisper is gravelly. “ ’N besides, I want you.”

“I dunno,” Dean whispers back, even as he’s letting Daddy pull him closer. “Sammy—”

“Sam’s had his milk”, Daddy reassures Dean.  “we won’t hear a peep outta him.”  

In the dark kitchen, Sam reaches over, gently nudges his cot to make it rattle the way it does when he shifts in his sleep.  There is, as any good hunter knows, such a thing as _too quiet_.  He lets out what he hopes sounds like a sleepy mutter. 

It must work, because when he returns his attention to the show on the big bed, he can see that Dean has allowed himself to be pulled right up on top of Daddy, straddling his thick torso.  His hips are still moving, slow but regular, like he’s riding a horse.  Daddy’s big hands are stroking up and down his thighs, coming up to grip his hips.  Sam has always thought of Dean as big; he _is_ Sam’s big brother, after all.  But against Daddy, he doesn’t look so large.  Daddy snags Dean’s shirt (“let’s get rid of this”) and Dean obediently lifts his arms, ducks his head, lets Daddy bare him.  Daddy gets the shirt over Dean's head and somehow tangles Dean’s hands, twists the shirt around them so he can keep them secured with just one hand at the base of Dean’s spine.  Sam sees his brother’s skinny shoulders hunch and pull at the bonds, sees his thighs tighten around Daddy’s waist.

Dean is breathing fast and shallow now; Sam can hear it.  And when Daddy fingerwalks up his belly and pinches his nipple, Dean whines, high in his chest.  His nipples look so dark, freckles too, while the rest of his skin seems pale in the filtered light.  Daddy looks darker, still clothed.  Then, one handed, he fumbles under Dean, working off his shorts while Dean struggles to keep his balance, hands still tight behind his back. 

Daddy’s movements kick the blankets onto the floor, and now it’s not like he and Dean are rising out of a dark, rumpled sea, but rather like they are spotlit on a snowfield.  Against the white sheets and the faded curtains, Sam can see every detail, even the way Dean’s little weewee is jutting out between his belly and Daddy’s. Dean shifts his pelvis, moving back to squat astride Daddy’s thighs.  Suddenly, Sam can see the bulge of his own father’s…cock.  That’s what Dean says, and he’s right: _weewee_ is too babyish for the thick organ that Daddy is taking into his hand.  _Cock_ is the right word: heavy and brutal, catching in Sam’s throat as he mouth the word silently in the kitchen.

Daddy has both—both _cocks_ , now.  His and Dean’s in one hand, while Dean arms are still restrained by the other. Daddy spreads his legs, forcing Dean’s own thighs apart, jarring his balance, tipping him forward. That whine again, as Daddy’s fist starts to pump, and Dean’s ass is pumping too, grinding himself against Daddy’s cock.

At some point, Daddy must let go of the t-shirt binding Dean’s arms, because Dean’s hands come forward, bracing himself against Daddy’s chest.  Sam can see his brother’s fingers digging in, can see the dark hairs on Daddy’s legs, can see every detail.  Even the sudden, spurting droplets that Daddy wrings out of Dean’s cock when Dean’s panting sounds drop into groans and finally one last high gasp as he throws his head back and his body curves into a perfect, silhouetted arch.

Dean’s hips keep moving restlessly for a few moments, but then he whimpers and sags down against Daddy’s chest. More circles on his back, muffled words that Sam recognizes as praise only from their tone.  “Sorry…shirt,”  Sam makes out, once, and then the grumble of his Daddy’s chuckle as he reassures Dean that it was nearly Laundromat time anyway.

The show is over, leaving Sam itchy with curiosity and so hot he is grateful for the cool plastic tile beneath his cheek.  What does that feel like?  To have Daddy’s big hands on you, and his thick thighs beneath you, and all of his hunter’s keen attention focused at you and…

A slow, protesting creak from the mattress.  Sam looks up.  They’re moving again.  Daddy rolling over, gently depositing Dean onto the sheets. Now Daddy is on his knees, quickly shucking off the t-shirt that is the only thing he wears.  Again, Sam thinks how small Dean looks, laying limp as a rag doll while Daddy’s kneels there with his broad hairy chest and his powerful legs and his coke-bottle cock.  He’s still hard, Daddy is, and for the first time, Sam feels a twitch, a stirring, between his own legs.  He clenches his thighs together.  The twitch comes again in a second, when Daddy wipes Dean’s body with his crumpled shirt and Dean squeaks, hips jerking.

“Sensitive?” Daddy whispers.

Sam can see Dean nod.  “Kinda.”

Then Daddy does something completely unexpected.  He reaches up to the grubby window in the trailer wall and pulls aside the curtains. 

Sam had thought he’d had a pretty good view, but now—with the moon fully up and no tree to block the light from the road—the bed is as bright as daylight. 

“So beautiful.”

Sam can actually see Dean darken, blushing, at Daddy’s compliment.  _That_ is how good the light is. 

“D’you want…?”

Dean whispers quieter than Daddy.  Takes a second for Sam to understand his words: “Like this.”  Then, with a quick glance toward the kitchen partition, Dean speaks a breath louder, “On my back.  It’s the best way.”

Daddy wraps his big hand around Dean’s ankle and ducks down between Dean’s legs, those long, lanky teen limbs thrown over his broad shoulders.  Sam doesn’t know what to make of the sounds that emerge, except that whatever Daddy is doing makes Dean’s toes clench and his head toss on the pillows.  Then, fingers again and they must go inside, just like earlier, because Dean starts to groan again and then gasps, just like he did when Daddy made him spurt.  Daddy watches Dean the whole time like it’s the most entrancing thing he’s ever seen. Sam watches them both.

Finally, Daddy crawls between Dean’s legs, kissing up his belly, up his throat, capturing his mouth.  Dean’s arms, flung out on the bed, come up to wrap around Daddy’s shoulders. 

“Now?”  Daddy growls, lifting Dean up out of the mussed sheets.  “Ready?”

And Dean’s head nods, lolling on Daddy’s shoulder. 

Daddy keeps one arm tight around Dean’s back, but the one closest to Sam slips between their bodies.  Dean presses his face against Daddy’s neck.  Then there’s a quick indrawn breath and Sam sees a flash of teeth as Dean bites into the thick muscle of Daddy’s shoulder.   But all he hears from Daddy is a low snarl.

Sam’s hand has somehow found its way into his pajamas, into the Spiderman briefs Dean loves to tease him about.  His weewee is’t hard,of course; it’ll never be hard and thick like Daddy’s, like Dean’s.  But it still feels tickly, a good tickly, and he fondles it as Daddy pushes and Dean grunts and, at last, one of them moans. 

Daddy lays Dean on the bed, but they are still joined.  Sam can see it from the way Dean’s legs come up to hitch over Daddy’s ass, the way they gasp and sigh together.  Sam’s hand is slick with sweat, trapped between his legs; his nuts feel tight, bursting, and when Sam touches them, his fingers slip back and encounter the dry clench of his own hole.  It’s not possible—it's so small, so tight—but there is no other way.  The light is spilling over all the muscles in Daddy’s back; Sam can see them flex and release as he drives into Dean, can see the answering way Dean’s body arches up.  It’s slow and powerful, as though the moonlight is water, as though the two bodies are moving against an opposing force.  Daddy’s breath sounds deep and rocky, Dean’s is getting high again.  He clings to his father as the pace grows faster, rougher—“oh, Daddy, oh, oh, yes!”

“I’mma…” Daddy’s whole body is surging now, plowing Dean into the mattress. “I gotta.”

“Yeah,” Dean whines, breathless.  “Daddy, yeah.”

No words, just four long, loud grunts, and then Daddy groans, subsides, sinking down onto Dean, concealing him completely from Sam’s view.

Sam slowly becomes aware of his own pulse throbbing in his ears.  His bare toes are nearly frozen to the kitchen linoleum.  How long as he been here?  The moon is still high in the sky, still illuminating the bed where Daddy has just rolled off Dean, the two of them lying naked and tumbled like shipwreck survivors on a beach.   That bed must have made so much noise, creaking and squawking, but oddly, Sam can’t remember noticing it. 

Daddy is moving.  Slowly, sated, but beginning to wake.  Sam scrambles, silent as he can on his frozen feet, to his cot.  He burrows under the old sleeping bag that he uses for a blanket and squinches his eyes closed.  Daddy is moving in the next room and Sam’s ears can’t help but pick out the sounds: squeak of bedsprings, fabric,  then footsteps.  Sam feels a burst of hot, fragrant air as Daddy eases open the partition, then hears him walk back.  The door trailer door opens—cold air this time, sneaking in—then boots on the aluminum steps.  Silence.  A long stretch of silence.  Sam counts to ten.  Twenty.  Thirty.

He opens his eyes and stares at the kitchen cabinets across from him.  They’re too small to be functional and one is missing a knob.  Daddy’s replaced it with a screw and a chunk of cork and…it’s no good.  Sam cannot distract himself.  He _has_ to see.

He sneaks to the partition.  Daddy didn’t close it after checking on him, so Sam can see the whole room: gear on the little fold-down table, his own bookbag by the miniature closet, and then the blankets still piled on the floor and, on the bed, his brother.  Looking right back at him. 

“C’mere,”  Dean says, sound just like he always does when the bus wakes him.  Now Sam understands why he sleeps so late, why he sounds so drowsy and contented in the morning.

Sam walks over toward the bed.  He’s slung his sleeping bag over his shoulders like a cape and it drags behind him.  Dean is wearing his sweatpants again, but not his shirt, and he looks…  Something’s different about him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Dean asks gently.

Sam isn’t sure what to say.  “My feet are cold,” he mumbles at last, non-sequitur.  “Where’s Daddy?”

“Out for a cigarette,”  Dean rolls onto his back.  “Get that blanket and you can come in here with me ‘til he gets back.”

“Thought he quit,” Sam says.  He’d diligently repeated to Daddy every word he’d learned in his anti-smoking unit at school.

“He did, mostly.”  Dean is always defending Daddy. “He just likes one sometimes, late.  When the moon is full.”

Sam just happens to be bent over, reaching for the blanket, and he looks up to complain, again, that Daddy never listens to him.  So he’s looking at a very particular angle when Dean rubs a hand over his belly. 

 _That’s_ the difference.  Sam can spot it now, the way Dean’s belly pooches out just a bit over the waistband of his sweatpants—which, having been inherited from Dad, are already pretty big.  Sam stands, clutching the blanket, and studies his brother again in the moonlight.  Yes.  Dean’s waist is definitely a little rounder, a little less defined.  

Dean must feel something in Sam's gaze because he looks up and his hand snaps out to grab the sleeping bag.  “Well, get in, jerk.  Don’t just stand there hogging all the blankets.” 

So Sam clambers into bed and worms his way under the covers until he’s curled up next to Dean.  And then, feeling a thrill of risk, he inches over to pillow his head on Dean’s shoulder.

“Feeling cuddly, huh?”  Dean says.

“Cold,” replies Sam.

But he’s not.  Not under the blankets, not with Dean warm as a furnace and dozing beneath him.  And then, sure enough, Dean’s hand slips back onto his belly.  Sam can feel it moving slowly, just an inch from his head. 

“Dean?”  he whispers.

“Hmm?”

“Are you…do…d’you feel.  Uhm.  Okay?”

A shift under his head: Dean chuckling, breathing.  A deep breath.  “Yeah, buddy.  I feel good.  Why?”

Sam turns his head; his cheek is on Dean’s belly.  This skin there is warm, stretched. Faintly damp with sweat.  “No reason.  Jus’ wondered.”

“Feel good,”  Dean repeats, sounding a little sleepier.  And then, after a few more breaths that lift and lower Sam’s head gently, he adds, “full.”

He could be talking about dinner, but he’s not.  Sam knows he’s not because he can hear Dean’s belly rumbling and gurgling under his ear.  And then, Dean’s hand jumps from his belly to Sam’s head, carding through his hair.  And then he is asleep.

***

Sam probably only nods off for ten minutes or so that first time, before Dean somehow senses that Daddy is coming back and shoves him out.  He stumbles back to his cot, muzzy-headed and not a moment too soon.  He’s barely got his eyes closed when he hears the boots on the steps, feels the cold air, tobacco-scented this time, as Daddy opens the door.   Daddy checks on him again—Sam can sense his presence—and then footsteps cross to the bed and there are more whispered words, a final creaking of the mattress as Daddy climbs in next to Dean.

But that’s just the first time.  Sam stays up again and again.  Most nights, there’s nothing to see, but when the moon is full…  It gets so that Sam doesn’t even have to climb out of bed.  He can simply lie in his cot with his eyes closed and his hand in his pajamas and _imagine_ what is happened, reconstructing things from the sounds: sighs, gasps, wet sucklings, stifled moans. 

Each time he hears Daddy shuffle into his boots, he waits for the click of the door latch, and then he makes his way out to share the big bed with Dean.  He likes to lie there, listening to his brother’s belly, full with whatever Daddy gives him.  He thinks often of Jonathan’s baby sister, of how big Jon’s mom had been before she was born.  They never talk about these things, so it’s not like Sam can ask.  But he could swear Dean is getting bigger, belly swelling rounder.  He traces it—up against his brother’s ribs, and then down to where the sweatpants cut across (tighter than they were last time, Sam thinks.  He’s almost sure of it).  Sam pushes down with his palm, feels the swelling shift.  Then, quick as a dare, he kisses the moving swell, presses his lips to Dean's smooth stomach. Dean lets out a long, shuddery breath, but he doesn’t complain.  He seems to enjoy having Sam’s hands on him, though he does occasionally shift Sam’s head a little, when he leans at an uncomfortable angle.  And he always sends Sam back to his cot before Daddy returns.

 A baby.  Daddy’s baby, growing big inside Dean’s belly.  Half-asleep, Sam recalls that this is probably not how things are supposed to go.  After all, there was a sex-ed unit not long after anti-smoking, but Sam gets the feeling that his teacher left a few things out.  Besides, isn’t Daddy always telling him that hunters are special?  _Different_.  Sam lets his kiss linger on Dean's belly; parts his lips and traces a design with his tongue.  A sigil, for protection. Dean shivers and sighs,  “Ohhh, Sammy.”

And then, one night—late summer, now, a big harvest moon and no more blankets—Sam is nearly asleep from the soothing gurgle and swish of his brother’s belly.  Dean is propped up on pillows, and Sam is slumped against him, ear to his belly, picturing a baby, tiny human, spinning in that warm darkness.  His eyes are drooping as he watches Dean’s hand pass over and around the smooth, stretched skin.  Dean is softer everywhere, now.  And then he feels it.  A faint, distant twinge that reverberates up to the surface, a ripple from the depths that touches his face where it’s pressed against his brother’s belly.  Again: just between his ear and his cheekbone.  Sam knows Dean feels it too: he can feel a change in Dean’s breathing, and he sees Dean’s hand pause a moment as it passes over his belly. 

Sam turns his head, slowly, never lifting it from his brother’s belly.

“Dean!”  he whispers.  They always whisper, when they are like this.

And Dean looks down at him with a peculiar, knowing smile. “Sammy,” he whispers back.  He’s had on hand on Sam’s back, rubbing slow circles as he drowses, but now his hand creeps up Sam’s back to his neck.  Sam doesn’t resist as Dean’s hand guides him, angling his head, pulling Sam against his chest. From here, the round curve of Dean’s belly is unmistakable, taut and heavy.  Dean shifts him again, looking at him with those green-hazel eyes as he sets Sam’s mouth against his nipple.  Sam wonders if the baby will have eyes that color, or if it will look big and dark, more like Daddy.  He thinks about Daddy, pounding and grunting into Dean’s body.  He thinks of the way Dean whimpers and cries and stretches and swells.  He wonders when it will be his turn. Then he licks Dean’s hard little teat and—as Dean had, all those months ago—Sam begins to suckle.


End file.
